


This is What We Talk About

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Love, Love/Hate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-17
Updated: 2009-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:45:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Alfred and Ivan don't talk much, that doesn't mean they aren't saying anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alfred Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end of Chapter 2 for notes.

It's like an old school meeting of mafia dons, Alfred thinks, the table lined by the heads of the familia along with their loyal lieutenants.

Beside him, Washington D.C. rises to his feet, his voice rising as well. No, not an old school meeting, after all. Back in the day, only the dons sat at the table, only the dons spoke; it was the dons who sorted things out among themselves. That's what _The Godfather_ films taught Alfred. Coppola may have lost his shine and Pacino and De Niro may have become parodies of themselves (a fate to which Alfred is not entirely unsympathetic…)—but there is no denying the awesomeness of those films. The first two, anyhow. Yeah, in _The Godfather_ (Parts I and II), lieutenants were there to be silent support behind their dons, letting their elders do the talking.

Elders. Jesus, he sounds like an old man. Is he really that old? When did this happen? Wasn't it just yesterday that he was the hero marching in to liberate Paris?

Alfred glances over at Paris, seated by France. Both are looking at Washington D.C. like—well, not like how they looked at Alfred in August 1944. He turns away before either of them can sense his gaze.

Washington D.C.'s voice goes up another notch. Alfred looks over as Moscow responds, upping his own volume again. The conversation is going nowhere. They're just saying the same things over and over, and even though Washington D.C. is right, Alfred doesn't know how much more of this he can listen to right now.

As he shifts his gaze back to Moscow, Alfred's eyes slide over Russia: he's doing that thing again. Sleeping with his eyes open. It took Alfred a while to realize Russia has perfected the art. It's creepy…but kind of awesome, too. Alfred doesn't know how he does it. He isn't sure who else knows about it; he hasn't told anyone. He hasn't even told Russia he knows. Alfred isn't sure why he's keeping this secret. All he can think is that maybe it will come in handy one day.

Alfred's gaze has slipped down from Russia's face when Russia wakes up: his hand unmistakably grasps and tilts an imaginary glass.

Their eyes meet briefly.

After another minute of listening to Washington D.C. and Moscow shouting at each other, Alfred slams his fist down on the table. He has to do it again before the others start to turn towards him, and a third time with a vocal demand for everyone to shut up before he gets the full attention of the meeting room.

"Everybody out," Alfred says. At first, no one moves. "Out! Except you." Alfred points his finger across the table at Russia. Still pointing, he says, "Russia and I will reach an accord on this. Full meeting will resume tomorrow." Alfred continues to point and look nowhere but at Russia, who meets his stare evenly. The curl of Russia's lips is almost imperceptible—but Alfred has seen it before and knows how to look for Russia's smile. He knows, too, how critical it is not to blink in the face of that smile.

Someone—Arthur—says they should adjourn for the day. Good old Arthur. Alfred knows they'll have words about this later, in private. Alfred is not looking forward to it. For now, though, he pushes it out of his mind.

When the last footfalls fade and they're alone, Alfred lets his hand drop, lets his eyes close. When he comes out of the long blink, there's a flask in Ivan's hand.

"I didn't come prepared for this," Alfred says. "Guess it'll have to be vodka for me, too."

"I cannot have that," Ivan says. "Fine vodka is wasted on you." His coat falls open as he reaches into the inner pocket, and Alfred tenses to stop a shudder rippling through him. Even wrapped in his coat, it's apparent Ivan has been losing weight since the Wall came down; they can all see it, and of course there are rumors from those who have been closer to him—but seeing it in the flesh, or almost in the bone, really…

The halted shudder has balled up at the base of Alfred's throat, and he swallows it down as Ivan looks up at him. With a more obvious smile now, Ivan pushes a second flask across the table. Alfred uncaps it: Jack Daniels. Nice.

They raise the flasks in silent toast. The smooth burn of the first swallow coats Alfred's throat pleasantly. He's just settling back in his chair when Ivan subtly but unmistakably draws his coat closer about himself. Without all the other bodies in here, the temperature of the room has cooled. There was a time not too long ago when _nothing_ was too cold for Ivan; the phrase wasn't even in Ivan's vocabulary. Maybe it still isn't in his vocabulary, but Alfred can see the physical evidence. He gets up and, finding the thermostat next to the light switch, turns it up a few degrees.

When he turns, his hip bumps the edge of the table hard, causing Ivan's flask to wobble before Ivan steadies it. Alfred takes a step before realizing the pocket of his bomber jacket is snagged on a chair arm; his movement pulls the pocket wider and his wallet falls out, opening with the impact of landing on the floor. Alfred unsuccessfully fights a hot flush. Even though he's had this bulk for a while, he still sometimes judges spaces by his old, familiar size and winds up knocking into things.

Fortunately, Ivan seems to have missed the embarrassing display of blushing when he bent down to retrieve the wallet. Or maybe he did catch it; there's a strange look on Ivan's face as he straightens up. Strange even for Ivan.

"Thanks." Alfred focuses on the wallet as Ivan hands it to him—and forgets all about the strange look. He smiles back at the Big Three, him and Arthur and Ivan, as they smile up at him out of the aging photo.

They drink in silence for a while. The theme song of the movie he watched last night is still stuck in his head, and he begins to hum it between sips. If it bothers Ivan, he doesn't say so, although he does open a window. Alfred decides to keep humming, anyhow.

He stops when Ivan says, "I know you identify yourself with Superman, Alfred. But I do not think you are correct in that."

"Christ, Ivan." And just when Alfred was starting to feel calm. "Do you really think you need to tell me that?"

Ivan opens his mouth, but closes it again without speaking. Alfred looks for _that_ smile, and finds it there just at the upper edge of Ivan's mouth. You really shouldn't look away from that smile, Alfred knows, ever.

He lets his eyes close anyhow, just a blink as he tilts back his head to swallow down the last of the whisky.

Ivan shakes his head when Alfred leans forward to return the flask. "It is nothing. Keep it."

"Well, if you're sure…" Alfred shrugs and pockets the flask. He stands to go. "Tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow," Ivan agrees.

Alfred pauses at the door, but he knows Ivan won't be walking with him and so he doesn't look back as he goes.


	2. Ivan Side

America thinks Ivan sleeps with his eyes open. Ivan does not know how America came to such a conclusion nor how he came to know what is in America's mind, since of course America has not said a word of this—but Ivan is certain of it. It amuses him to no end, though part of their little game means not allowing his amusement to show or acknowledging the game in any way other than the play itself.

And play he does. Ivan has lost sleep over this game, scrupulous in keeping himself awake whenever America is near lest America catch him with eyes closed for longer than a blink. It has meant learning to control the involuntary reflex of the blink, training the orbicularis oculi and levator palpebrae superioris muscles to respond only voluntarily, and never volunteering the response when America believes him to be asleep. This game, one that he cannot be sure America is aware of, has at times exhausted Ivan.

It has been worth it.

America believes Ivan to be asleep this very moment. Ivan knows this because of the way America becomes focused whenever he thinks he is watching Ivan sleep. This is one of the amusements for Ivan, the way America becomes more aware and guarded when he does not think Ivan is conscious. Ivan does not know why America should be this way, but suspects America must be playing a game of his own.

It is good, this. To have a way to pass the time. To have a way to stay awake in situations where it is wise not to fall asleep, such as world meetings. This meeting, for example. Ivan does not wish to nod off, but there is little to pay attention to. Moscow has made his point, Washington D.C. has failed to acknowledge the error of his own argument, and now they are shouting at each other. The discussion is loud, yes, but volume alone cannot keep one awake. This has none of the nuances of the colder past.

The flask pressing against Ivan's ribs is still cool. America's gaze has slid down from Ivan's face; before it goes elsewhere, Ivan moves to capture it: curling his fingers around air, he signals "drink."

There is not a flicker in America's eyes when they meet Ivan's. Ivan is not sure if America has seen the signal. He has witnessed the missing and misunderstanding of many signals by America through the years. Many of those misses have amused Ivan, but now he is too tired to be amused. He is too tired for this meeting where, once again, nothing will be accomplished. He is tired enough to want to sleep, which of course he cannot do. Failing that, he wants a drink.

Or could it be that America is only pretending not to see? Is it possible that America has a new game with someone else, and that has taken his attention? One of the Middle Eastern nations, perhaps, or North Korea—

 _Bam!_

America's hand, shaped in a fist, comes down on the table again: _bam!_ And then his other hand comes up, also a fist—except for one extended finger, pointing straight at Ivan as America orders everyone else out of the room.

Their gazes lock. Ivan feels a swell of nostalgia for their old staring contests. He feels a swell of something else, too: hilarity. He recalls that there is a variation of the staring game where blinking is allowed, but one must not laugh. Could that be the game America wishes to play now? The air is heavy; Ivan thinks that others besides America and himself are playing this new game, and that he is not the only one in danger of losing. They all want to laugh, do they not?

But then England says they should listen to America. The heaviness dissipates; the others begin to leave. Not for the first time, Ivan wonders how good a cocksucker America must be to keep England at his side like this. He hides his smile not in the corners of his mouth, where everyone hides theirs, but just under his upper lip, against his teeth. No one thinks to look for hidden smiles there.

As the meeting room becomes empty of all but the two of them, neither of them laughs. Ivan is not the one to blink first, but somehow the feeling of victory eludes him. He draws forth his flask.

When at last Alfred opens his eyes, they land on the flask. "I didn't come prepared for this," Alfred admits. "Guess it'll have to be vodka for me, too."

"I cannot have that," Ivan says, claiming a small victory now as he reaches for the second flask, whisky, in his inner pocket. "Fine vodka is wasted on you."

Sensing Alfred's gaze on his body, Ivan forces himself not to close his coat too quickly and obliges himself to meet Alfred's eyes with a smile as he pushes the whisky across the table.

They toast silently to the game. Not wishing to remind either of them how much he has lost, Ivan draws his coat more securely about himself.

After another swig, Alfred gets up. It would be curious for him to be leaving already—and he's not; Ivan watches him go to the thermostat. Ah, of course. Even without the others heating the room with their bodies, Alfred's face is still flushed pink. It is far too warm in here for someone of his bulk. Ivan was always fine, but he was born to be big; on Alfred, the weight is unnatural and he has not yet learned how to manage his new size.

The vent above Ivan's head rumbles to life, cool air rushing out—oh, but fat, silly Alfred has turned the dial the wrong way and it is _warm_ air that blasts into the room. Ivan waits for him to correct his error, but Alfred only moves to return to his seat, proving Ivan's theory about his ineptitude with his size by crashing into the table; Ivan manages to steady his flask before it spills.

Something falls from Alfred's jacket pocket and Ivan seizes the opportunity to hide the smile Alfred's crash provoked in him by bending down to retrieve the fallen object—and is met with his own smiling face. His own and England's, and Alfred between them, an arm around each of them, smiling and smiling and smiling.

It is almost blinding, Alfred's smile, and Ivan finds he must look away from it. His eyes slide to the picture opposite but find no relief, for Alfred smiles at him out of that picture as well, this time standing beside Japan.

A strange feeling comes over Ivan as he straightens and hands the wallet back to Alfred, who thanks him. Ivan watches Alfred look at the pictures. There is no escaping the fact that everyone in the picture is someone Alfred fought with bitterly at one point, and defeated (if Alfred counts the Cold War his victory, which Ivan knows he does). Ivan keeps such pictures himself. But there is nothing in Alfred's photographs that speaks of conquest. Alfred's photographs speak of something else, something essentially Alfred—or at least the Alfred from those days, the one that comes back to Ivan when he saw that picture from Potsdam.

Now Alfred is sitting on the other side of the table again, drinking whisky, unwilling to acknowledge the erroneous heat. He is so steadfast in refusing to admit his mistake that he begins to hum.

But then Ivan recognizes the tune, and thinks it may not be false nonchalance after all. This is the song from the film that was playing on the television in his hotel room last night. The humming, Ivan reconsiders, may be less an attempt at distraction and more a connection to Alfred having looked at those photographs just now.

Ivan is willing to drink with Alfred and even to listen to Alfred's humming, but he does not wish to watch Alfred turn unbecoming darker shades of pink or sweat through his bomber jacket. Ivan opens the window behind him, allowing fresh, cool air into the room.

Alfred says nothing, interrupting his humming only to drink from the flask, resuming it even as he swallows. Ivan wonders if Alfred has presumed Ivan is familiar with the song, as he seems to assume that all the world knows of his "culture," and if perhaps this is a new game.

"I know you identify yourself with Superman, Alfred," Ivan says. "But I do not think you are correct in that."

The humming breaks off, the flask coming down to the table with a surprisingly soft thud. "Christ, Ivan. Do you really think you need to tell me that?"

So it is not a game, after all. In that case, Ivan will shut his mouth. He will not tell Alfred that the superhero of his that he _should_ identify with is the Spider-Man. What was the line? 'With great power comes great responsibility.' That is the Alfred that Ivan remembers from the photograph.

The Alfred before Ivan now has closed his eyes again as he drains the flask. When he offers to return it, Ivan shakes his head. "It is nothing." He does not want Alfred to think him so poorly off now that he cannot afford the loss of a simple flask. "Keep it."

"Well, if you're sure." Alfred shrugs and pockets the flask. He stands to go. "Tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow," Ivan agrees.

Unaccountably, or perhaps for effect, Alfred pauses in the doorway. He does not turn around. Low in the sky, the sun casts its late afternoon light through the window, bathing Alfred golden as he stands there. Not a superhero after all, Ivan muses, but ever the lone cowboy striding away in the sunset.

When Alfred has gone, Ivan smiles. He puts away his flask and puts his hands in his pockets as he goes himself, off to play again tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title stolen from a Raymond Carver story; the full title of Carver's story is "This is What We Talk About When We Talk About Love."
> 
> The song Alfred is humming is "Hero" from Spider-Man 2.
> 
> Originally written for [The Hetalia Kink Meme](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com).


End file.
